


Shall I Stay?

by ister



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Betaed, Fluff, M/M, they all love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 15:00:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14571507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ister/pseuds/ister
Summary: Prompt: are cute prompts okay too? because i can't stop thinking about the first time napoleon falls asleep with his head on illya's shoulder (like in a car?) because it's such a cute thing and also a display of real trust.As if Napoleon has decided to side with Gaby again, to strengthen her argument, he picks that moment to slump limply against him. Illya goes rigid, hands balling to fists. He's suddenly right on the edge ofpanic, his heart hammering in his chest.





	Shall I Stay?

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by anonymous

“Oh, wow,” Gaby deadpans, “you made it.”

Illya refrains from glaring at her and nudges Napoleon’s shoulder to get him to move. He only gets a short grunt in response. The little Ford doesn’t allow much movement and he pushes his partner again, not wanting to stay at the abandoned factory site any longer.

Napoleon hisses like a disgruntled cat, and makes a face like one, too. “That’s no way to treat someone you—”

“Be quiet,” Illya interrupts because he _knows_ the ending to the sentence already and he doesn’t want to discuss it in front of Gaby.

She might be the person he trusts the most beside Napoleon, but she doesn’t need to know everything right away. _That’s not how you treat someone you just kissed,_ Napoleon had been about to say. The worst of it is that Gaby would probably agree with their partner: beneath her tough exterior, her heart beats romantic – at least when it comes to him and Napoleon.

Napoleon lets Illya shove him into the car, but then plants his ass on the middle seat, arms crossed, and refuses to move further over. His quiet amusement at Illya’s impatience reads like a challenge. He’s on the verge of saying something about it when he catches Gaby’s raised eyebrows in the rearview mirror. She probably sees right through his paltry attempts at secrecy. 

“You’re both as subtle as a brick to the face when it comes to each other,” she’d said after a particularly long night out, Napoleon fast asleep against her side. 

He'd pretended not to know what she was talking about, just as he now pretends his partner isn't sitting next to him, pressed stubbornly right up against his side. Napoleon doesn't like being ignored, so he yawns and stretches deliberately, his hand dangerously close to Illya's face. He suppresses the urge to push it away, as well as the twin urge to lean forward that last inch and kiss it. What has Napoleon done to him? 

He forcibly puts the thought aside and looks out of the window in the hope that he'll be left alone with his thoughts, but the only thing he sees is his stone-faced reflection staring back at him. Night falls quickly around here, and he wonders briefly how the Scots deal with it. He thinks he could get used to it, maybe after his retirement – a dangerous thought, and one he doesn't care to dwell on. How often are people in his profession granted a chance at a peaceful life? He'd love it, though, if it were possible.

Inverness possesses a raw beauty he's not been able to admire enough, and he's sorry to be leaving so soon. He knows Gaby well enough to guess she'll insist driving through the night – all too eager to get back to Edinburgh and the lovely junior agent they've been working with. 

She's quite the piece of work, especially with her nearly incomprehensible accent, but somewhere along the line Gaby had grown to like her a bit more than professionally, charmed by her quick wit and never-ending thirst for knowledge. Napoleon and Illya could only watch in amused befuddlement as Gaby had ditched the chance to break into a whisky distillery with them, preferring to spend the evening with Peggy instead. Not that he minds; they're a cute couple, and he really has no room to throw stones. 

“Back to Peggy?” Napoleon asks, cutting into Illya’s thoughts, and yawns again. 

It's credit to them that he trusts them both enough to shed his masks almost completely. Not that long ago, he would have been hiding every last bit of exhaustion.

“Shut up,” Gaby snaps and Napoleon grins. 

She's exposed more about her feelings than she would have with a simple “no,” and they all know it.

“That’s a yes then,” Napoleon murmurs in Illya’s ear, as if it were a delicate secret rather than an obvious fact.

Illya hums and smiles at him, helplessly. Napoleon squeezes his knee in answer, his fingers trailing a short path up his thigh before he withdraws them. He leans his head back against the seat and lets out a small sigh. It’s more exhausted than happy, but Illya will take every form of positive interaction he can get. After all, it had taken them some time after Istanbul to properly warm up to each other and for Illya to figure out why his partner was so unlike anyone he'd ever met before. 

Napoleon's breathing has evened out into sleep by the time Illya gives up on staying quiet and leans forward. “How far will we drive?” he asks, hoping Gaby will stop at the next small hotel. 

“Well, we’re all tired, so probably just back to the hotel you spotted earlier.” She meets his gaze in the rear view mirror. 

“Good,” he answers, trying for serious, but unable the quash the smile that rises at the thought of a good sleep in a soft bed with Napoleon close by. 

“You two can stay a bit longer,” she suggests. “We have the rest of the month off, you know.”

That takes care of the smile. “What about you?” he asks sharply. Is she planning something without them, or – almost worse – does she feel unwelcome?

“What about me?”

“Won't you stay with us?”

Gaby smiles. “I don’t think so. It'll do you some good to have Mr. Art Specialist to yourself for a while.”

“I don't—”

“You do, Illya. You really, really do. Besides, I want to see Peggy again.”

Illya wants to add something, anything, to tell her he doesn't mind that she _knows_. It's not a dirty secret, after all, but he's still not entirely comfortable with not just one, but two people knowing so much about him. The number has never been so high. Both of his partners have shown Illya that they trust him, though, so he has to do his part even if it's not easy. 

“He really cares about you, you know,” Gaby adds. “Maybe this will give you both time to figure out where you stand.”

He just hums in response. 

As if Napoleon has decided to side with Gaby again, to strengthen her argument, he picks that moment to slump limply against him. Illya goes rigid, hands balling to fists. He's suddenly right on the edge of _panic_ , his heart hammering in his chest. Nobody's ever—

Gaby laughs. It's loud and startles a displeased noise from Napoleon, which leads to him leaning heavier against Illya. He's only left to glare at Gaby. How dare she make fun of him like that? 

“This is a very serious situation,” he hisses. 

“Oh, Illyabär,” she says and wipes a stray tear away, “Entspann dich. Ihr solltet das beide genießen.”

_Relax._ It sounds so easy when she says it like that. “How am I supposed to enjoy this as well?” he asks in English because he's too tired to use German properly. “What if he wakes up?”

Gaby's sharp gaze is on him for a fleeting moment, and it's enough for her to see right through him. She always does. All of his insecurities and doubts are laid bare to her.

“Don't be so stiff,” she suggests, “and put an arm around him or something. He won’t bite you. He doesn't like being close to people, true, but he trusts _you._ Let him in.”

“I already have,” Illya says quietly, and looks at Napoleon, his face open and relaxed as his head rests on Illya’s shoulder.

“Sure thing, Bärchen.” Gaby smiles. “God, you're so cute, I can hardly stand it.”

“Why, thank you,” he tries, a defense, a last barrier; being snarky seems to help Napoleon, so why not him as well? 

“Cute,” Gaby mouths. 

“No,” he mouths back, but decides to take her advice. 

He's careful when he wraps his arm around Napoleon's shoulder, solid muscles moving under his touch to press closer against him. Illya's ears burn, sure that Gaby is watching them, but when he looks up, she has her eyes on the road. 

Allowing himself a moment of weakness, he drops his nose against Napoleon's hair. It smells of dust, of the lingering hint of his soap, and of something so uniquely _Napoleon_ that it makes his heart ache. He's lost. Truly and utterly lost. 

The realisation makes him look up again, half expecting the panic to come flooding back. Instead, he finds he only wants to stay. He wants to wake up next to Napoleon, wants to hear him laugh more often, wants things he can’t even name, and the sheer unexpected _force_ of it tightens something in his chest.

Gaby has started to hum, like she always does when there’s no music and she wants some background noise. It doesn't annoy him as much as it used to. Now it feels more like coming home. It loosens that thing in his chest enough that he can relax again, and before he can think about it he’s stroking Napoleon's arm, and from there it’s natural to rest his cheek on the top of Napoleon’s head and close his eyes.

There's a lot he has to think about, but for now he just wants to enjoy this closeness. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and doesn't know who he's addressing: Gaby, with her never-ending support, or Napoleon, with his trust and his open-minded acceptance of change. 

In the end, it doesn't matter. Neither of them replies. They don't have to. By now Illya knows they care about him as much as he cares about them, and that's everything he could hope for and more.  
When he opens his eyes again, his reflection in the window catches his attention. It looks relaxed now, and strangely at peace. He looks good, he thinks, if he's ever looked good. 

Napoleon makes a small noise in his sleep and draws his attention again. He tightens his arm just slightly, secure in the knowledge the dark is hiding his affection and his partner won't remember any of this tomorrow. For now, the night will keep his secrets. 

The lights of a small town fly by, and suddenly he recognises the tune Gaby's humming. It's a song both she and Napoleon have teased him about multiple times. 

_“Giving in to Western music I see, Peril?”_

_“Don't insult his Soviet-ness. He_ hates _it, don't you, Bärchen?”_

This time, he admits defeat with a sigh and closes his eyes to let Gaby's voice wash over him. In the peaceful dark of the night he admits something to himself that he won't confess out loud - at least not for a while. Credit's due to the song, as well as to Gaby's words and Napoleon's quiet, grounding presence. 

He really can't help falling in love. He already _is_ in love. And for the first time, these feelings don't feel like the end. They feel like the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again! I hoped you liked this little fic. It's something short and fluffy before I'm diving back into more angsty topics. 
> 
> As always, a lot of thanks to my lovely beta [Anna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes). I'm super grateful to have her because this fic would still sit in my drafts without her. ~~Not to sound shady, but @Anna: You know why.~~
> 
> Concerning the song I've mentioned: I left two hints - one is in the title, the other one in the text itself. So have fun figuring out which one it is :D ~~Spoiler altert: Illya is a huge sap.~~
> 
> Please feel free to leave comments, they brighten my day. Plus, I'd love to read your thoughts bc I had a lot of fun writing this one.


End file.
